


Don't Scratch

by Jojo_In_The_Shadows



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anniversary, F/F, Gen, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-13 08:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16888899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojo_In_The_Shadows/pseuds/Jojo_In_The_Shadows
Summary: This year it's like an itch, and Patsy really really doesn't want to scratch it. All she wants is to forget about it. But apparently this year she's not allowed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks. This is my first fanfic that has made it on to paper/screen, plenty more in the old brain space, just need to tease them out. I haven't written much prose in years, so any constructive criticism please do send it my way, and feel free to be pedantic, I know I've done it to several of you other writers in the past. It's also proving longer than I expected to be so in order to push myself to finish it I thought I might as well post this much.
> 
> Also, for anyone who doesn't follow her on social media, Kate Lamb (Delia Busby) is desperate to go on the Fjallraven Polar expedition next year and needs your votes if you, or someone you're friendly with has facebook. There's 6 days of voting left, she slipped down to 3rd at the weekend and has been consistently behind her usurper by around 200 votes. Please, please, please give her a boost if you can, the woman is awesome and 200% deserves this.
> 
> https://polar.fjallraven.com/contestant/?id=4862&backpage=1&order=popular®ion=4

It was like an itch, and Patsy was adamant that she wouldn’t scratch it. Because scratching itches doesn’t help in the long run, a moment of relief that can often lead to something worse. But like most itches, it was proving very difficult to ignore. In fact, it was intensifying, and had been for several days. What had started off as an awareness at the edge of her peripheral vision was now encroaching on her minds eye. She just wanted it to go away. She wanted to ignore it, to forget about it, to act like it didn’t exist, as she had done for so many years. This year it seemed she was not allowed.

She forced a smile onto her face as she trotted into the box room she’d been sharing with Delia for three weeks. Quarters were close, but that suited them quite well. Most of the time. Delia was sat at the desk, composing her weekly letter to her dragon of a mother. Patsy squeezed her shoulder briefly, dodging the hand that tried to grasp hers as she proceeded to the dressing table and began the tedious task of releasing her hair. She could feel Delia watching her but she stayed focused on her own reflection as she removed kirby grip after kirby grip before then reaching for the brush to start teasing out the lacquer.

Delia sighed. “Cariad?”

“Mmm?”

Patsy heard the desk chair push back, the light padding of Delia’s stockinged feet on the carpet, and the gentle creak as she rested on the corner of the dressing table.

“I really think you should ask Sister Julienne for tomorrow off.”

“Why would I want to do that Busby?” The false sweetness in her voice set her own teeth on edge, and she hissed as her hairbrush snagged on a rather stubborn tangle of hair.

“Please don’t use that tone with me Pats, you know it won’t fly.”

The red-head could only sigh, staring fixedly into her own eyes, so like her mothers that when she had arrived at her father’s sick bed he couldn’t bare to to look at her, but by the end he could barely look away. 

“There’s no point Delia, I’ll just end up scrubbing the clinic room until I wear away the floor tiles.” She tried to resist when Delia took hold of the hairbrush, but she had never been able to resist Welsh firecracker for long. The gentle draw of the bristles across her scalp made her shiver.

“I’m just worried about you. I haven’t seen you agitated like this in a while.”

Patsy drew a shaky breath. The love in that voice scared her sometimes, she didn’t deserve it. She knew it could break her. “I’m fine Deels.”

Small, strong arms wrapped around her waist, Delia pressing entirely against her back. Patsy tried not to tense.

Delia sighed against her shoulder. “Look me in the eye and tell me that,” she whispered.

Lord, she really was helpless to resist this woman. She made it next to impossible to build up walls, to bottle up the things she didn’t want to deal with. So she gave in and leant into Delia’s embrace, turning her head to bury her nose in thick brunette locks. “Please,” she pleaded. “All I want is to forget about it this year.”

“I wish I could take it from you.” Delia pressed her lips to Patsy’s neck, sending another shiver through her. “All those experiences, I wish I could have endured them so you didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Patsy chastised bringing her hands up to squeeze the smaller ones interlocked around her middle. “I’d go through it all again if it meant you never get to experience a moment of what I went through.”

“Now who’s being melodramatic?” Delia’s chuckle next to her ear allowed a small smile to break through Patsy’s stony expression, while the open-mouthed kiss she pressed to her shoulder sent a flash of heat all the way down to her toes. She was unsure if this was Delia’s intended affect but honestly at this moment she didn’t care. The tension that had been building in her muscles over the last few days felt as though it was starting to evaporate, as was the hyperawareness of tomorrow’s encroaching significance.

“I just need to stay busy. Distracted.” Patsy muttered into Delia’s hair.

Delia sighed right next to her ear and that heat coursing through Patsy’s body intensified, humming beneath her skin. The Welshwoman squeezed just a little tighter. “If you want some company with your distraction, please please just ask me.”

Patsy moved a hand into Delia’s hair, guiding their mouths together for a soft kiss. “Will you distract me now?” She gazed into her partners eyes, praying her meaning was clear. She wasn’t very good at asking for what she wanted. Fortunately, Delia was an expert at reading her, and the languid, sensual way she moved her lips against Patsy’d told her the message had been received loud and clear.

“Gladly.”

 

She could hear the Sisters shuffling down the hallway on their way to morning prayers, as she stared at the patch of orange light from the streetlights on the ceiling. Sleep had been elusive. She’d managed maybe an hour after they’d eventually donned their sleepwear and Delia had insisted on a cwtch. The gentle stroking of the woman’s thumb against her ribs and her soft steady breaths against her throat had lulled her into slumber. She wasn’t sure what had woken, but there had been a tightening in her stomach and the return of that itchy awareness of what day it now was.

She was so selfish. What right did she have to indulge in pleasure, or joy, when those she loved most could never experience such things again? Her sister, her mother, now her father, even poor Barbara, God rest her soul.

They’d been busy gallivanting around Canada, indulging their new found freedom, taking advantage of unprecedented opportunities to enjoy each other, that news of Barbara’s condition didn’t reach them until the day before her funeral. Patsy had come close to spiralling after that phone call, the one that confirmed Barbara’s demise. But Delia held her close, held her together, wouldn’t allow her to break completely. Even with all the money now at their disposal it would have been impossible to make t back to Poplar, back home, in time for the funeral. And so they had seen out their last week in Ontario. Patsy had been morose, feeling too guilty to allow herself to enjoy their excursions, to enjoy the last few days they had alone together. Delia on the other hand, while certainly sad, seemed to find a new appreciation for every experience, a wonder for their surroundings, to relish each moment they could freely be a couple.

Their final stop was Niagara Falls. Patsy had been stood under her own personal little black cloud, while Delia discreetly leaned into Patsy’s side, their clasped hands concealed by their thick coats. They’d admired the spectacle of the waterfall for quite some time, both lost in their own thoughts, until a large blue and black butterfly had flown past Delia’s nose. Thoroughly enchanted she had followed it’s flight until it flew up and landed on Patsy’s hair. Delia giggled gleefully, her eyes bright with unwept tears, watching the butterfly spread and fold it’s wings, content at rest.

“It suits you Pats. Like a beautiful hair slide.” She’d reached up to the butterfly, gently nudging a finger against it’s legs until it took the hint and stepped onto her hand, bringing it down to eye level. “Barbara would have loved this.” 

The unrestrained delight that spread across Delia’s face made Patsy’s stomach clench. She simply didn’t understand how Delia could be thinking of something so desperately sad, and yet look so happy.

And of course, Delia could read her like an open book. “Oh cariad, please don’t look so bereft, you’re allowed to feel good things still, you know that.”

Patsy dropped her head, unable to continue looking into those beseeching eyes. “It just doesn’t feel right Delia. She’s barely cold in the ground, how can you be happy at a time like this?” Cool fingers beneath her chin forced her gaze from the ground, to meet eyes so soft, so full of love she felt that they weren’t meant for her.

“I’m sorry sweetheart. I know you felt so very alone in coping with the deaths of your family. But you’re not alone now, I won’t let you be. It’s not easy, but I believe that allowing yourself to feel moments of happiness can bring you closer to those you’ve lost. And Barbara could find happiness in such simple things. She had the sweetest soul. So please, if you feel joy, even for a second, don’t feel guilty for it.”

She’d placed a gentle kiss on her cheek then, brushing away tears Patsy hadn’t even realised were falling.

They’d flown from New York back to London the next morning.

Right now, that itch had returned with a vengeance, crawling underneath her skin. The only reason she still lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying so hard not to fidget, was because she was loath to disturb Delia. The woman had a grip like a koala when she wanted to comfort or be comforted, but she was finally drifting into a deeper state of sleep, one where she’d be less easily disturbed, and that grip around Patsy’s ribs was oh so gradually relaxing. It was taking everything Patsy had to lie still until that hand went limp at her side, and then it took even more not to leap out of bed and out the door. Instead, she gently lifted that arm and carefully shuffled out from beneath it, keeping it elevated, while she reached across the small gap to retrieve a pillow from her own bed to settle underneath it. Delia, still very much asleep, only drew the pillow tight to her chest and pressed her face into it, snuffling a little before settling again. Any other morning Patsy would have found the sight so endearing she’d be a puddle of mush on the floor by now. Patsy released a quiet sigh of relief. Delia would be annoyed with her for sneaking out of their bed, but she desperately needed space and distractions. She swiftly gathered her uniform and wash bag and hurried to the bathroom for a thorough wash.


	2. Chapter 2

Patsy’s mission for distraction started out so well. When she got downstairs she found Lucille desperately trying not to nod off. The poor woman had been getting more than her fair share of night shifts in the weeks since Patsy and Delia had returned. Patsy, having been absent for over a year had been required to take some re-orientation, making sure she was up-to-date with any and all changes that had been made while she was away. Delia on the other hand was still under some degree of supervision, after all she had only just qualified as a midwife when the pair of them had taken off on their jaunt around the globe. Patsy of course felt guilty for being a burden to the young woman and insisted on relieving her, sending her off to bed and promising to handle any protests from Phyllis Crane.

She’d made herself busy for an hour or so, dusting and tidying the phone station, making sure all the paperwork was in order and cross-indexed with both the log book and Nurse Crane’s rolodex. With every busy minute that passed the itch receded just a little. She’d just finished mopping the corridor floor when the first panicking father of the day telephoned, begging her to brave the cold and attend to his labouring wife.

The baby was the young couples third, so everything proceeded quite smoothly and swiftly. She was almost disappointed. Not that she’d ever wish a more difficult birth on any mother, but today she would have relished something to challenge her mind. As it was, she’d practically flown through the whole thing on auto-pilot, diligently of course, and arrived back at Nonnatus as her colleagues were sitting down to breakfast. The itch was still hovering at the edge of her peripheral vision as she skimmed lightly across the cobbles on her bike, the chill wind blowing straight through her coat, but with rounds this morning and clinic this afternoon she was increasingly confident she could make it through the day.

“Nurse Mount, we didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” proclaimed Sister Julienne from the head of the table.

“Neither did I Sister.” Patsy took her usual seat at the table and reached for the teapot, studiously ignoring Delia bustling around in the kitchen behind her. “Mrs Palmer, another bouncing, bellowing boy.”

“I must say, that woman knows how to pop them out,” Valerie exclaimed to Patsy’s left. “I think she sneezed and number 2 arrived!”

“Indeed.” Nurse Crane made sure the Trex was spread evenly across her slice of toast. “And you should be thankful Nurse Mount that it allows you time for a bite to eat before rounds, seeing as you weren’t supposed to be on phone duty this morning.” She peered at her pointedly over the top of her glasses.

“Oh, not to worry Nurse Crane, I had something before I went out,” Patsy fibbed. “A cup of tea will see me through just fine.”

A bowl of porridge appeared in front of her, a generous dollop of strawberry jam in the middle of it. Sighing, Patsy let her eyes move up the arm that had deposited it, to Delia’s stern expression, eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Last of Violet’s jam Pats, make the most of it.” 

Delia squeezed her shoulder before taking her seat on Patsy’s right, and the itch crept a little closer. As Delia moved aside Patsy spotted Sister Monica Joan glaring at Patsy’s breakfast, no doubt mourning the loss of her coveted jam supply. 

Patsy almost jumped when Delia’s knee made contact with the side of her thigh and stayed there. She knew it was meant as a gesture of comfort, something they did on a fairly regular basis now they had to be more covert in their affections, but now the itch shot straight to the point where their bodies connected. Patsy yanked her leg away so fast she almost overturned the wretched porridge bowl. 

She absolutely could not look at Delia. Her eyes would show clearly her hurt at Patsy’s rejection, her confusion, probably exasperation too. She couldn’t handle that right now. Any appetite she might have had had also fled at the touch.

For the look of it, and nothing else she picked up her spoon and stirred in the jam, turning the bowls content a sickly pink. She knew Delia was watching her out of the corner of her eye so she forced the spoon between her lips, and had to suppress a gag. The texture took her straight back to being in hospital after the being liberated from the camp. Malnourished and weak, she had been force-fed porridge by the nurses. The sweetness of the strawberry mixed into this porridge did nothing to deter the unwanted memory. It hadn’t bothered her since her first year at boarding school, where porridge had been the only sustenance available at breakfast time. She’d had little choice but to desensitise herself from the experience. So why did it bother her now today of all days?

The phone rang down the hall. Patsy forcibly swallowed the small portion in her mouth and stood. “I’ll go.”

Delia grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down into her seat. “No you don’t, eat your breakfast.”

Patsy snatched back her wrist, hissing at her partner as she stormed away from the table. “Stop mollycoddling me Delia!”

She was vaguely aware of the stunned silence she left behind her, Delia muttering an excuse for her behaviour. She knew she wouldn’t tell them the full reason behind her outburst, that she would be discrete, but shame still burned up her body, alongside that damned itch. Already this day needed to end. She took a deep breath before answering the telephone. “Nonnatus House, midwife speaking?”

 

This day truly did need to end. Her second mother of the day was Mrs Mura, a middle-aged woman whose family had taken up residence in Poplar just 3 months before. Mrs Mura, her husband, mother-in-law and 3 daughters existed in a single room, about the size of the room Patsy had previously shared with Trixie. And they were Japanese. They slept on traditional mats on the floor. When Patsy saw this she stopped dead, the blood draining from her face. Births on the floor were hardly the worst, a little tougher on the knees and lower back perhaps, but they were relatively practical. 

But once again she was transported back two decades to Palembang. There had been a number of births in the first few months after they were imprisoned in Irenelaan. She’d been too young to assist with the two births that happened in their cottage, aside from trying to scrounge clean water and cloth, leaving the stoic faced women doing what they could to help the poor mothers, or to wait outside the door nervously. Patsy was very well aware that she was in a very different time and place right now, but it just felt a touch too familiar for comfort today. She had to soldier on. There was a mother and baby that needed her skill and composure. 

All was going relatively well until the baby started crowning and Mrs Mura suddenly stopped crying out in English and instead started hollering in Japanese. Patsy didn’t understand what the woman was saying but the cadence and intonation ramped Patsy’s heart rate up painfully, perspiration soaking her back, body tensing in anticipation of a piece of thick, hard rope striking her skin.

She jumped when a hand clamped around her wrist, the scared shriek held back in her throat as had been expected of her as a child. She glanced up into the confused and concerned eyes of Mrs Mura Senior. It took only a split second for Patsy to return to the present, to recall that she was 31 years old, not nine, and that she needed to pull herself together and finish a very important job.

This time she was very glad for a smooth birth, and she fled the small dwelling an hour and a half later, after making sure Mrs Mura was settled under her mother-in-laws doting care, the longed for son and heir cradled tenderly in his fathers arms.

 

She needed space. If she returned to Nonnatus now everyone would be returning from their rounds and she absolutely could not face them. At this point she was sure even the sight of Delia would cause her to break. No. She needed time to collect herself, to get her protective walls in place. She considered going down to the docks, the environment a stark contrast to the home she’d just left and the memories it had invoked, but wasn’t sure she could cope with the frenetic energy and the noise. Besides, her uniform meant she was easily identifiable and the last thing she needed was the husband of one of her patients asking if she was all right. She needed to find somewhere green, an elusive requirement in east London in December but she could settle for a park turning brown.

It was quiet, the chill discouraging the usual crowd who might sit in the park to eat their lunch. Patsy settled on a weather-worn bench under the cover of three leafless trees, away from the footpath, closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the seat hard. Just breath. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 1, 2, 3, in 1, 2, 3 she chanted in her head, staring hard at the reddish darkness behind her eyelids.

She didn’t know how long she sat there like that, but slowly her body calmed, her mind quieted, and the itch dissipated just enough that she didn’t feel the need to claw her way out of her skin.

A growling caw from above her head startled Patsy out of her meditation. She looked up expecting to see a big, black bird or something similar, but was surprised to find a squirrel, the little fellow clearly having missed the notice about hibernation this year. He was perched on one of the higher branches, hunched over like a coiled spring, brushy brown and grey tail laying flat over his head as he continued to growl, and was answered by another caw from a tree by the park wall. 

She watched them in their verbal conflict for several minutes, a small part of her wondering if this was the squirrel equivalent of swearing at each other, until the one over her head decided they were getting nowhere and shot down the tree, across the wilted grass and into his opponents territory. Patsy’s lips pulled tight, a puff of air escaping between them, and the outer corners of her eyes creased as the two grey blurs dashed around the tree trunk, across the grass, nearly colliding with her feet, under the bench and up another tree. Her stomach felt buoyant and she wanted to…laugh. Delight. She was feeling delight. 

Almost as soon as the realisation hit her a wave of shame rolled over her, drowning the positive feeling entirely. How dare she! No. This would not do. Her stomach was rolling in an entirely different fashion now, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to prevent whatever was surging up her throat, a cry or bile, she wasn’t sure which, from escaping.

Eyes watering and breathing ragged, she shakily stood and grasped the handlebars of her bicycle tightly. Delia. She wanted Delia. She wanted her to hold her tight and whisper that she had her, that she was safe, that if she broke she would help her put herself back together again. That she wasn’t alone. But what right did she have to seek comfort from anyone? She did not deserve it.

Busy. She needed to be busy. She needed to be useful, needed to help, needed to serve.

It took her several attempts to clamber back onto her bicycle, her limbs not quite willing to follow her brains commands. It did cross her mind that she shouldn’t be cycling in this state, but she told herself very strongly that if she took it slowly and was extra aware of her surroundings she would be safe.

As it was she was genuinely shocked to find herself out the community centre. She couldn’t recall a moment of the journey. Never mind. She was early for clinic, but that meant she had time to work in peace.

 

The Nonnatuns began arriving 35 minutes later. Patsy had everything set up and ready, and was just starting to set out the chairs.

“Blimey Patsy,” Valerie grinned as she wrestled a chair out of her hands. “You going for Employee of The Month or something?”

Patsy grabbed the next chair in the stack. “No point in wasting time Nurse Dyer.”

“Come on Patsy, leave us something to do, you’re making the rest of us look bad!”

Patsy was saved from having to formulate a response by a hand grabbing her wrist and pulling her aside. Ok she wasn’t saved. Not saved at all it turned out. She could barely glance at Delia, the Welshwoman’s baby-blue eyes boring into her, examining her.

“Please tell me you’ve eaten something today?” She whispered, her accent thick with concern.

Patsy pulled her wrist free but didn’t dare to move away, even though Delia’s scrutiny was bringing the itch back to almost full power. She clenched her teeth and fixed her eyes somewhere past Delia’s left ear. She watched in her peripheral vision as the woman took a deep breath, eyes rolling to the sky and muttering “Duw rhowch gryfder I mi.” God give me strength indeed.

“Patsy, you’re white as a sheet. Please take the afternoon off, Sister Julienne will understand…”

“Delia just stop!” Patsy hissed, finally locking eyes with the woman she loved. Oh how she just wanted to fall into those eyes, into Delia’s arms. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t allowed to. Besides, even if she could, she didn’t trust herself to get back up again. “Stop telling me what to do, stop nagging me and let me get on with my job.” She felt a peculiar calm start to seep into her skin, felt the walls sliding up around her mind.

Delia must have seen it in her eyes. She took half a step forwards and whispered, “You might as well tell me to stop loving you.”

Patsy just stormed away.

 

The customary cacophony of clinic was a shield in a way. The noise of the older children playing and running, mothers barking at them to behave, babies crying, was all something to hide in. The armour of her uniform, her Nurse Mount persona had stood her in good stead for years, it would not fail her today.

She was aware of concerned eyes watching her as she went about her duties, the too high and bright voice coming out of her mouth was indicator enough to all but the most recent additions to Nonnatus House that she was out of sorts.

A cup of tea with two gypsy creams was placed none too gently on the table next to the examination bed in her cubicle, the look on Delia’s face making it clear there would be hell to pay if the entirety was not consumed. Patsy knew she needed sustenance, that her body must be hungry for fuel but her stomach was a lead weight, and she didn’t trust that any food item could make it past the knot she was sure had been tied in her gullet. Still, she sipped at the tea. Well sugared of course, and far too milky, as Delia preferred it, making it almost too rich to keep down. But she persevered, small sips over the next hour, even once it had gone stone cold.

She grounded herself in the routine and procedure, questions and examinations she knew by heart. Her calm was tested when a mother entered her cubicle so slim she could see the outline of every bone, tattered clothes hanging off her. Again her past tried to tug her back to Palembang. No doubt every scrap of food that made it into this mother’s home went straight to her children, her own health and nourishment no priority compared to theirs. Such had been her own mothers demise. This woman’s two children, a toddler and a 4-year-old, had both presented with a rash. Patsy handed the two little ones the biscuits from her saucer before summoning Dr Turner to check on them, stopping by Mrs Turner’s desk to make sure the family were flagged for some additional support.

Sister Winifred was amenable when she asked to swap and take over at the weighing station. She hoped it wouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions, they all switched and swapped during clinic hours, variety being the spice of life and all that. And the weighing station was the simplest and least taxing of clinic duties, she could see out the afternoon here without a problem.

She should have swapped with Lucille boiling urine samples instead.

Hefty twin boys had just been placed back in their pram, when she was handed a delicate little thing. A shock of true ginger hair, porcelain skin, crystal blue eyes gazing into her soul, assessing her, judging her worth. Patsy felt the cold sweat break out beneath her uniform. And the child’s name? Victoria Grace the mother proclaimed proudly. Patsy’s breath caught in her chest. She was holding a ghost. She had to be. She couldn’t look away from those eyes, eyes that seemed so familiar, eyes she had seen sparkle with mischief, glisten with delight, mist over with tears, and eventually go dull as the last spark of life left them.

She didn’t realise she was violently shaking until the child was removed from her arms and then she was moving, as fast as she could towards the bathroom. Before her knees even hit the tiles in front of the toilet bowl her stomach explosively evacuated its meagre contents, leaving her a shivering, gasping wreck, eyes and nose streaming, uniform plastered to her skin. Her head felt like it was inflating, the ringing in her ears building in volume and pressure, she couldn’t catch her breath as she slumped back against the cubicle wall, her feet and hands starting to tingle. Delia’s hands on her face barely registered through the fog that was closing in on her, she could just see the woman’s lips moving but couldn’t hear the words they were forming. Her lungs were burning, her head pounding. And just like that something snapped. And there was nothing. She was numb. She drew in a breath and knew her body was relieved but she felt nothing. She looked up at Delia, really looked her in the eye, registered the fear and the distress and the desperation in those eyes. Nothing.

Patsy leant against the toilet to lever herself off the floor, tugged her uniform away from her skin and brushed straight past Delia.

“Pats?”

She cupped her hands under the running tap over the sink, brought the water to her lips, the cool liquid soothing the burn at the back of her throat.

“Patsy please look at me.”

So she did. She turned around and she looked at Delia. “I’m all right Busby. I’m sorry I scared you.” She turned back to the mirror over the sink. She was horrifically pale, with angry red splotches on her cheeks and forehead. A few strands of hair had escaped the beehive, easily fixed by tweaking a few kirby grips.

Those small, strong hands were on her shoulders, turning her away from the mirror, to face eyes shimmering with tears.

“Please sweetheart. Tell me how to help you? I’m at a loss here!”

Patsy gently removed those hands from her shoulders, holding them loosely. “Don’t worry about me Delia, honestly I’m all right now.” She gave Delia’s hand a light pat before letting it drop. “Now come along Busby, there’s work to be done!”

She breezed out of the bathroom, dodging Delia’s attempts to waylay her.

“Patsy, you need to go home!”

Patsy strode towards the kitchen. There would be plenty of glassware and other equipment needing washing up, she could manage that even if her legs did feel like jelly. “No need for all this fuss Delia, I’m fine.”

“I’m afraid, Nurse Mount, that I am inclined to agree with Nurse Busby.” Nurse Crane stepped into her path, pulling her spectacles off her nose, a bundle of patient files held in the crook of her elbow. “You gave poor Mrs McLoughlin quite the fright there.”

The smile Patsy forced herself to brighten in the face of her superior felt so very very fake. “Really Nurse Crane, there’s only 45 minutes left of clinic, I can manage a bit of clearing up.”

But of course Phyllis Crane wasn’t buying it. “ I must insist you return to Nonnatus, you look as though a stiff breeze will knock you right over lass.”

This was a fight Patsy knew she couldn’t win. When Phyllis Crane made her mind up there was no changing it. “Fine, I’ll go collect my bike.”

Delia attempted to protest, but Nurse Crane was on a roll. “I don’t think that would be very sensible, would it Nurse Mount?” The senior midwife shuffled through her stack of files before handing them over to Delia. “If you wouldn’t mind taking these to Mrs Turner Nurse Busby, I’m sure you girls can manage here while I take Nurse Mount back to Nonnatus in my motorcar.”

“Really Phyllis…”

“That’s Nurse Crane I think you’ll find Nurse Mount. Now go and get your coat.”

 

It was like being a chastised child sent before the headmistress, sat ramrod straight in Nurse Crane’s Morris Minor. Not that Patsy had ever been sent to the headmistresses office, she’d been a model pupil.

“Honestly Phyllis, I’m fine now, it’s passed,” she tried to reassure her senior colleague, knowing full well the northerner would not be convinced.

“If it had passed Nurse Mount, then you’d be rational enough to know that riding bicycles and handling babies would be highly inadvisable at this time,” Phyllis huffed, studiously holding the steering wheel at 10 and 2, eyes forward and vigilant. “How would you feel right now if you’d seen Nurse Busby take a turn like that? You’d have marched her straight out of the building.”

“I can still be useful!” Patsy knew she sounded petulant, but the only feeling starting to push through the numbness now was a hint of desperation. She didn’t want to be left unoccupied for the rest of the day.

“Look, Patsy, we’ve known each other for some time now, I’m not going to pry into what’s going on, happy as I am to listen if you need me to, but I know you well enough to know you need to come to that in your own time.” Phyllis risked a sideways glance, probably trying to assess her receptiveness. It made Patsy nervous. “I know you can’t stand to be idle when you’re unsettled, but it would be remiss of me to put you to work again today, tomorrow too I imagine.” Phyllis raised a finger to stem the red-head’s protest. “And if I see you near the cleaning cupboard I’ll lock you in your room myself kid. No, what you need now is rest, and if you won’t take that, then space. However I’ve come to know your Delia rather well too, and I know she’s desperate to bundle you up in cotton wool and try to heal your hurts by force of love alone, something I notice you are not receptive to today. So I will do what I can to distract her this evening.”

Patsy hung her head, a heaviness settling over her. She couldn’t decide if it was comforting or disturbing. All she knew was that she was suddenly so very tired. “She won’t thank you for it.”

“No she probably won’t. Lord knows that girl loves you something fierce. I hope you appreciate that.”

A wave of guilt kicked Patsy in the gut. “Normally I do.”

Phyllis sighed beside her, changing gears. “It’s not always easy to let ourselves be loved kid, especially when love is absent from our childhood.” 

The nurse put the car into reverse and backed up into her usual spot outside Nonnatus House. Patsy hadn’t even been aware of them passing under the railway bridge. The engine stopped it’s grumbling and Patsy felt a hand wrap around her forearm. It wasn’t easy to meet Phyllis’s eye, but she only saw an expression of sympathy that made her throat tighten.

“Go run yourself a bath lass. I’ll bring you a cup of tea when you’re done.”

 

It was dark in her room. Not as dark as she would like, but dark enough. The street lamps outside cast their usual orange glow on the ceiling, and she’d angled the desk lamp down as far as she could so only the page she was reading was lit.

The bath had helped settle her somewhat. And of course Phyllis was right in her assessment that she needed space. She had no desire to interact with anyone. She felt fragile, fragile enough that if someone so much as touched her she might break.

In order to keep her mind occupied she’d dug out one of Delia’s old midwifery text books. She was currently annotating the pages, making corrections on out of date information, elaborating on alternative procedures, or just adding more detail where she felt an explanation was a little flimsy.

She’d heard the bustle of the other midwives returning several hours ago. Delia had popped in to check on her but Phyllis had swiftly collared her to take over Patsy’s evening rounds. Patsy hadn’t been disturbed since. The telephone had rung a few times, and the usual clattering and chatter of dinnertime had drifted up the stairs, but she was grateful to be left in her solitude.

Aware that Delia could only be kept away for so long, she took a fortifying breath when she heard the squeak of the door knob, bracing herself for the loving assault she knew was coming.  
Delia gently placed a plate of bread and butter with a boiled egg, and a cup of tea down on the desk, but she remained quiet, and that was almost more unnerving to Patsy.

“I’m going to visit the chapel after the nuns finish compline, light a candle for Grace. Do you want to join me?”

Not a snowball’s chance in hell, Patsy thought. She didn’t say it, she couldn’t. Her throat had closed up in her effort not to respond to Delia’s presence, which yes, she knew was a response in itself.

Delia sniffed beside her. “Please cariad…”

When she squeezed her shoulder Patsy flinched away. “Delia,” she whispered, “just leave me alone.”

The small sob that escaped Delia’s throat nearly broke her resolve, but being in Delia’s presence would break her entirely if she couldn’t get her to go away soon.

A tap at the door saved her having to take any more drastic measures, the Leeds accent identifying the new arrival as Patsy glared at the word suture on the page in front of her.

“Ah there you are Nurse Busby, I wonder if you might assist me in a rummage through the charity box? One of Nurse Mount’s patients from clinic could do with a few bits and pieces.”

Out of the corner of her eye Patsy observed Delia straighten her uniform, and she thought she heard her wipe tears from her cheeks.

“Oh, sorry Nurse Crane, but I’m rather busy at the moment.”

Patsy gripped the edge of the desk. Why did Delia have to keep fighting?

“Please Delia, “ Phyllis attempted to placate her, “you’ve got such a good eye, I know you’ll find just the right items to make that family feel special.”

There must have been some sort of gesturing going on behind Patsy because Delia stiffened, whether in resistance or indecision she wasn’t sure. Then the fight just left her.

“Please try to eat something annwyl,” whispered the Welshwoman. Her hand stroked down the back of Patsy’s head, her lips pressed to her temple. “I love you.”

Patsy’s knuckles turned white against the wood of the desk. She knew she was being unbearably cruel to Delia, but she just couldn’t respond the way she wanted her to.

When the door closed she finally released the breath she’d been holding, but as the rushing blood quieted in her ears she picked up on the conversation taking place outside the door.

“Please Phyllis, I need to stay nearby. What if she decides she needs me? She won’t come downstairs and get me!”

“I’m sorry kid, I know its hard but giving her space is better for both of you right now.”

The sob that travelled through the door was a kick in the gut.

“I don’t know what to do Phyllis. How to reach her. I’ve never seen her this bad, she’s scaring me.”

Delia’s sobs became muffled. Patsy hoped Phyllis was giving her a much needed hug.

“Come along now, lets keep you occupied.”

Then there was quiet.

 

She had been this bad before. Worse even. When she’d boarded the ship after her fathers death she’d disintegrated, been near catatonic for a fortnight. She would have welcomed Death if he’d come for her then, simply unable to see beyond the all consuming fog that was choking her mind. The only thing that kept him at bay was a discreet but dedicated chamber maid, whose name she never discovered, bringing her food and water twice a day, pressing wet pieces of cloth between her lips on the days she couldn’t even bring herself to drink.

Had it not been for the dream she’d probably have remained in that state for the rest of the journey, likely institutionalised when they reached Southampton. No-one would have known to contact Nonnatus. She would have been lost if Delia hadn’t come to her in her sleep.

The Welshwoman had stood over her, her nose wrinkled in disgust, her eyes cold, no hint of the love that always shone from them. “Is this what you’re worth?”

Patsy wanted to tell her she was sorry, that she knew she wasn’t good enough, to plead with her, to reach out and pull her to her. But she was paralysed, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. 

Delia shook her head, a puff of mirthless laughter escaping her nose. She looked like she wanted to say more, berate Patsy further but in the end just waved her hand and walked away. “What’s the point.”

She had to follow her, had to go after her, she couldn’t let Delia abandon her like this. She could feel the darkness and despair sucking at her, pulling her under. No. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to see those eyes again with all the warmth and light she remembered, that laugh, those dimples. Home. 

Patsy made one last monumental energy-draining push to go after Delia and was woken when she landed on the cabin floor. It took her an embarrassingly long time to get herself upright, she’d been supine for most of the last two weeks and was badly dehydrated, all resulting in a horrid disorientation. Guzzling down two glasses of water also proved a very bad idea and forced her to dash into the tiny bathroom to bring it back up again.

Slow. She would have to take this slow. She needed to put her shattered fragments back together, make herself a functional human being again. Delia could not know how far she’d fallen. She didn’t think she’d survive seeing that look of disgust a second time. She would never be a burden on Delia, she’d never know she was worthless.

And so she’d spent the remainder of the journey forcing those shattered fragments to stick together again. It was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. She couldn’t remember how she’d done this after the camp, no doubt having suppressed the memory of suppressing the memories. It seemed that every time she got a couple of fragments to adhere to the whole another one started to come loose again. It was like trying to piece a broken vase together without any glue, instead just wrapping the whole thing in sticky tape and hoping the pieces would stay where you’d put them.

Thinking of Delia waiting for her on the dock as the ship came into Southampton helped to start knitting the remaining fractures back together. She fantasised about rushing into her partner’s arms and making sure she knew how much she’d missed her. Feeling loved. Feeling safe. A wave of panic threatened to send pieces flying again when she realised that Delia wouldn’t be waiting for her at Southampton. Delia didn’t know she was coming home. Delia didn’t even know she’d left Hong Kong. She couldn’t remember when she’d last even written to her. Oh god, what if Delia had given up on her? What if she wasn’t waiting in Poplar for her anymore? She couldn’t blame her. What was the point? What was Patsy worth?

No seriously, what was Patsy worth? Delia deserved better than her. She deserved someone who would write to her every single day if they had to be apart. Someone who could look at her and not be terrified of breaking. Someone she didn’t have to ask how to help because they were broken beyond repair. Someone who could give her all the love and happy moments in the world. Patsy had no worth.

Her shoulder was shaking. Why was it shaking? She blinked. It felt like she hadn’t blinked in a while. Her eyes stung. There was a hand on her shoulder. That’s why it was shaking. Listlessly, her eyes followed the arm attached to the hand, down to the body kneeling beside her chair. It’s other hand was was over her knee, fidgeting with the seam of her jeans. The body had a beautiful face, though it didn’t look as she remembered, the mouth turned down at the corners, the eyebrows knit together, and the eyes…the eyes looked like they had love in them. Not meant for her, surely, for someone else.

The body took a breath. “Hey.”

“Hey?” She croaked in response.

“You were a million miles away.” The hand on her shoulder lifted up to her cheek, hesitantly while the face watched her carefully. This time Patsy didn’t want to flinch away. Delia released a sigh when she was allowed to make contact with her skin. “I was just going to get ready for bed. Do you want me to sit with you a while?”

Patsy barely had the energy to shake her head.

“Do you want me to help you to bed?”

Another shake of her head. She may have been beyond tired but sleep was not something she wanted to risk yet. Her dreams would be too vivid.

“All right. Well, if you decide you want a cwtch you know where I am.”

Patsy closed her eyes and just listened. Delia was trying to be as quiet as possible, maybe trying not to disturb Patsy, perhaps feeling awkward and unwelcome in her own room. She was moving slower, more gently, trying not to draw attention yet in doing so making the clatter of her watch against the bedside table and the clang of the metal hanger she retrieved for her uniform seem louder and all the more jarring. But then the soft sound of old, well-worn pyjamas sliding over her silky skin, the gentle hiss of the hairbrush pulling through her thick, chocolate dark locks, and the rustle of the bedclothes as she settled into their warmth, then finally the flicking of pages, was almost comforting. They’d become the sounds of home, of the routine of their life together, the closest they could get at this point to domestic bliss.

She wanted to go to her.

Delia was trying to wait up for her, trying to give her every chance to go to her, knowing that Patsy would not wake her. Patsy knew the woman too well, and how well the woman knew her. She also knew that the emotional turmoil she’d put her through that day had taken its toll, and gradually the yawns grew in frequency and intensity, the page turning slowed, and eventually the Welshwoman’s breath grew slow, deep and steady.

Patsy continued to sit and listen. Her mind was busy but she couldn’t hear anything distinct, all she really heard was the soft whistle as Delia breathed through her nose.

She couldn’t resist it any longer. She turned to look at her love. Usually Delia looked so peaceful in sleep, almost childlike, but not tonight. Her eyebrows were still pinched and there was a tension to her that meant she was still gripping her book tightly despite it being splayed on the quilt. Patsy had done this to her, left the love of her life distressed even in sleep. 

She switched off the desk lamp and moved ghost-like around the bed. It would be so easy to slip in behind Delia, wrap her arms around her and bury her face in her hair as the smaller woman pulled her arm tighter and laced their fingers together. But she knew Delia would wake, she would refuse to let sleep pull her back under, needing to comfort Patsy. So instead she eased the book from Delia’s grasp and placed it on the bedside table. 

She glanced at the alarm clock, always turned towards Delia’s bed as that was where they usually ended up. It was nearly one o’clock. Had Delia been so late coming up? Or had she been sat so very long listening?

It didn’t matter really, Delia needed to sleep, she refused to be a further burden to her, wouldn’t disturb her anymore tonight. She leant over and switched off the bedside lamp. In a moment of weakness she brushed Delia’s fringe out of her eyes, easing it back behind her ear. Then she placed a gentle kiss on her furrowed brow. Delia stirred just a little, searching for Patsy, trying to turn towards her.

“Shhh. Sleep now love,” Patsy whispered. “Sweet dreams.”

She held her breath waiting to see if Delia would settle, releasing it only when Delia succumbed to her slumber, the tension seeping from her body as she finally relaxed fully, seeming to sink further into the bedclothes.

“I love you,” Patsy murmured as she stood and stepped out of the room.

 

Bringing a jumper would have been a splendid idea. It was freezing in the chapel, as chapels tended to be but it felt like this one was worse than most, even though she knew it wasn’t. Rotten boiler, always on the blink. She wasn’t going to get up and find another layer, that would increase the risk of bumping into someone. So she settled for rolling down the sleeves of her chequered shirt, bunching up the cuffs in her fists.

Peace was what she had hoped to find in here, a quietening of the mind, but she seemed to have found quite the opposite. Where her mind had been busy but relatively unobtrusive upstairs, she now found thoughts and questions rising to the surface to needle at her.

She’d considering reaching for a prayer book to distract herself. She knew the Catholic version inside-out and back-to-front and had always been a little curious how the Anglican teachings really differed, but she was feeling a tad bitter towards God, whatever or whoever that was, at the moment. Which certainly made her choice of bolt-hole somewhat bemusing. At least in here she wouldn’t be disturbed.

Someone sat down next to her. Oh he most certainly had to be mocking her today.

“To be called from ones bed in the dead of night is an unsettling matter. But to be unable to take to one’s bed is to be truly unsettled.” The elderly nun sat in her dressing gown, whispy hair uncovered, gazing at the cross upon the altar as it glowed in the light from the streetlamp. 

“One thinks the call was from the battenburg in the pantry Sister,” Patsy sniped before she could bite her tongue, sighing as guilt prodded at her.

“That as maybe, but the cry of a soul in pain diverted my course.” A beatific smile spread across the care-worn face, and a wrinkled hand settled lightly over Patsy’s own.

“I’m sorry Sister Monica-Joan, my bad mood is not meant for you. I’m not worth diverting from your quest for late-night sweetmeats.” Patsy drew her hand away to wrap both arms around herself.

“A bad mood, but also a melancholy that I have only seen hinted upon you in the past. What brings it to fruition child?”

A fortifying breath did little to quell the fluttering in her stomach. She didn’t want to talk, but the nun’s presence compelled her to. “My sister, Grace. Today would have been her 28th birthday. Or yesterday now I suppose.” She rubbed her eyes, the mounting hours of wakefulness beginning to tell again.

“Ah. A jubilant time indeed when one is celebrating the living of another year. Yet after one has passed, an enigmatic event. To celebrate the life that was, or to mourn the life never perpetuated.”

An elephant may as well have landed on Patsy’s chest for it suddenly felt so very hard to draw a breath. “I couldn’t acknowledge it this year. The only thing I wanted was to forget that the date held any significance. But I haven’t been allowed to. She’s been haunting me all day.” It was growing harder to fight the sob building in her chest.

“The body remembers. Even when the mind is unable, or unwilling, to do so.”

“I wish it wouldn’t. I wish it would all go away, all the memories, all the pain, all the anger, she got to find eternal rest, she got to stay with Mama, and I’m left with all this. It’s just not fair!” The sob finally forced it’s way out and she crunched forward, grasping her stomach where the pain centred itself. “I’m being punished. This is my penance.”

She shrugged away the hand that tried to comfort her, but it held fast, gripping her shoulder.

“What for child?”

Patsy had to stop her bottom lip from shaking before she could respond. “We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. And I didn’t. But I thought it…” Patsy’s voice died in her throat. She didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to admit her greatest shame, something she’d never confessed to anyone, not even Delia.

“Tell me. You will find no judgement here.”

“When Grace died, everyone told me God only takes the good so young. But all I could think was that she wasn’t that good, she was such a…a brat most of the time! Nanny despaired of her! Neither of us have ever lived up to our names, but I was the good girl, I did what I was told, she didn’t so why did God take her and not me? Why didn’t I deserve his mercy? She died in my arms, why couldn’t he take me too?”

The sobs overwhelmed her. She had confessed her burden, torn the scar off that old and festering wound. Surely she should feel relief, instead she felt worse. Patsy gave in to the nuns gentle coaxing and collapsed against the frail woman’s surprisingly solid frame.

“You were but a child. A child in mourning, suddenly alone in the most terrible circumstances. He would not judge you, nor punish you for such thoughts.”

Patsy wanted to argue against the kind words, insist she was undeserving of such benevolence, but she was finding it difficult to form words in her mind let alone vocalise them. So she let the sister rock her gently until she could at least breath evenly again.

“It occurs to me,” Sister Monica-Joan ventured, “that while this melancholy certainly concerns your sister, it concerns more the little girl who was left behind.”

The red-head held her breath. She wasn’t sure where the elderly nun was going with this but she suspected she wouldn’t like it.

“You detached yourself from her, to protect yourself, but she’s still in there, a part of you, crying out in her loneliness, in her need to be cared for, as every child should be.”

She was right, she didn’t like where this was going and so she sat up, wiping the tears from her face, trying to put her walls back up. Only now instead of slamming into place they seemed to resist.

“When you are ready, go to her. Go to that little girl in your mind and take her in your arms. Allow her to cry, tell her she is safe, that she is loved. Because you are there for her now.”

A fresh tear rolled down Patsy’s cheek, and her voice wavered as she whispered, “I can’t. I’m not strong enough.”

Sister Monica-Joan grasped both her hands tightly between her own. “Then take our strength. We will uphold you. You are loved by all who dwell beneath this roof, Nurse Mount.”

Tears streamed down Patsy’s face. She didn’t know how to respond, how to accept the nun’s offering or the things she was saying, feeling so very undeserving. She couldn’t even meet her eye.

“And the one that loves you best, has strength enough for you both.” The nun turned towards the chapel door. Patsy followed her gaze, only to find Delia peering around the door frame, clutching the wood tightly, her cheeks equally wet. 

“All she need do is to be by your side, to offer you that love and strength as you find your own way down this path.” The sister gave Patsy’s hands one last squeeze as she stood, meandering her way to the door. “Now then, marzipan still calls.”

And she was gone.

Hesitantly Delia stepped into the sanctuary, only moving into Patsy’s space when the last wall crumbled and Patsy sobbed freely. She pulled Delia to her and buried her face in her dressing gown as the smaller woman stroked her hair.

“I’m here cariad, I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Patsy spluttered, “I’m so so sorry.”

Delia pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Hush now, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

Patsy pulled away, her hands clutching at Delia’s dressing down. “I do. Oh Delia I’ve been utterly beastly to you all day!”

“Shhh.” Delia grasped her chin tenderly, angling Patsy’s face so she could look her in the eye. “I understand. And if it’s what you need to hear, then I forgive you.” She leant down and placed her lips against Patsy’s for just a second. “Now come on, lets get you to bed.”

 

Patsy allowed herself to be lead up the stairs, for her jeans and shirt to be swiftly exchanged for her softest pyjamas, and finally to be coaxed to lie down next to Delia, resting her head on her chest. She continued to sniffle as the brunette stroked her hair with one hand, her other arm holding Patsy close, that ever active thumb rubbing against her back, over her scars. For Patsy’s part, her fingers had found a loose thread in the side seam of Delia’s pyjama shirt and she was twiddling it round her knuckle.

She was just beginning to think about letting the pull of sleep draw her under when she felt Delia sigh.

“I think you should go to her Pats.”

Patsy raised her head just enough to glance questioningly at her partner.

“To that little girl that got left behind, I think you should go to her. I’m here, I’ll be holding you the whole time.” There was a sadness in Delia’s eyes that brought that lump back into Patsy’s throat.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You are strong enough.” Delia raised a hand to her cheek, soft and warm. She almost felt safe.

“It’ll break me. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Delia was searching her eyes. “Do you think I’ll love you any less if you break?”

The tears were starting to roll down Patsy’s face again. “I don’t want to find out.”

“Oh sweetheart.” Delia pulled her in tight a peppered tiny kisses across her forehead. “I didn’t love you any less when you moved out of the nurses home, or after my accident, or after you went to Hong Kong. If you break I will still love you, I won’t think any less of you.”

Patsy clutched at Delia’s shirt, trying to pull herself closer. “I don’t think I can put myself back together again if it happens.”

“Look at me Pats.” Delia grasped her chin again and lifted her face. “You are not alone in this. If you do break then I am here to help you pick up the pieces, even if it takes the rest of our lives.”

Burying her face back into Delia’s chest Patsy allowed herself to sob. She did not deserve this woman, she really didn’t.

“Go to her cariad,” Delia whispered. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

It didn’t seem to take a conscious effort. Patsy simply found herself standing outside the makeshift cemetery at Irenelaan, watching a scrawny little girl with dirty blonde hair, wearing tattered, hastily sewn shorts and vest, standing over a pile of freshly dug earth. She was alone. All the women who had helped to dig Grace’s place in her mother’s grave had gone about their other business. The child left behind had no expression on her face. She didn’t look cold, just…absent.

Patsy took a hesitant step. Then another. She was three steps away before the child noticed her presence. Patsy dropped to her knees, bringing herself to just below the girls eye level. She stroked the stringy hair out of her eyes.

“It’s all right Patience.” Tentatively she placed her arms around the child, feeling her stiffen instinctively. “It’s all right, you’re safe now. I’m here.” The child began to relax against her, her skinny arms hesitantly rising to rest against Patsy’s shoulders. “You are loved. I’ll never let you be alone again.”

The dam broke and the small body collapsed into her arms. Patsy scooped her into her lap and held on for dear life as the child screamed out her anguish.

The same anguish tore it’s way out of Patsy in a howl as she clawed at Delia, the smaller woman holding onto her as tight as she could, but it wasn’t close enough for Patsy. She wanted to merge with Delia, to be absorbed by her, to hide within her as she shattered into a million pieces. She could hear Delia muttering I love you next to her ear, over and over like a chant. 

The commotion outside the door barely registered in Patsy’s awareness, the tension and pain in her body and mind all consuming. The door rattled open and she heard Valerie’s East End accent, alarmed yet slurred with sleep. “What’s happened?”

“Come on you lot,” the gruff falsetto of Phyllis Crane of course took charge. “Back to bed with you, come on. Nurse Dyer, out.”

“But…”

“Out, come on, there’s no use crowding the poor girl.”

The door clicked shut again, but the shuffling of feet told her they weren’t alone yet.

“Everything all right lass?” She didn’t think she’d heard Nurse Crane’s voice so soft outside of a delivery room.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to wake the whole house,” Delia pleaded, tears making her voice catch in her throat. 

Patsy couldn’t hold back another howl as it forced itself out of her throat. Another hand lay on the back of her head.

“Don’t you apologise. This is long overdue I’ll wager. Do you want me to sit with you for a bit?”

She felt Delia shake her head before pressing her face into Patsy’s hair.

“All right. But you shout if you need anything Delia, even if it’s just a hand to hold. This won’t be easy, and I know you’re strong enough, but use our strength too, both of you.”

“Thank you Phyllis,” Delia muttered against Patsy’s scalp.

Delia resumed her chant once the door clicked shut again, rocking Patsy gently. Time lost all meaning, but eventually her cries reduced down to hiccups, her face sore and dry, her tear ducts long since having given up. She could feel Delia’s heart beating below her cheek, steady and strong. She was so tired.

“Go to sleep cariad,” Delia murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

Her sweethearts arms wrapped her inexplicably tighter, cocooning her, protecting her. It didn’t take much to let sleep pull her down into the depths. She could still hear that heart beating as she descended, reminding her that she was safe. That she was loved. That she wasn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently some of the stuff my counsellor works on with me sticks in my head and manifests in stories. Apologies if it got a bit repetitive, seriously sleep deprived over here, will give it a proper edit at some point! Haven't been able to bring myself to watch the last 2 episodes of s7 yet so if this story is meant to account for anything in them do let me know.
> 
> Now I'm off to destroy myself by reading chapter 11 of Wheely_Jessi's Forget-Me-Not. I'm a glutton for punishment.


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